Muse
by palesadpuppet
Summary: [Davy Jones x Cutler Beckett, for the unloveyou challenge] Some things are stranger than they seem, and some things simpler than a man could ever hope for.
1. freeze

_freeze_

(for the unloveyou challenge at livejournal; theme 19#: this isn't about you at all)

There are tentacles coiling up his right shoulder and the air fogs when Beckett breathes out. "Why are you so cold?"

Jones arches one brow, his hands resting on Beckett's arms. "The Dutchman is always cold." He takes in Beckett's shivers; the young man is trying to suppress his reaction to weather so cold that there are patches of ice forming on the deck. He finds himself quietly amused at the thought.

"Not your _ship_," Beckett says, trying to sound superior and disdainful in spite of his chattering teeth. "_You._ Why are you always cold?"

Jone laughs. "It's cold under the sea."

"You aren't _under _the sea. You're _above _the sea." Beckett seems determined to have an answer, staring at him with that exasperated look that clearly portrays his present opinion of Jones' intelligence. "Your mouth is always cold. You've made it quite easy for me to tell."

Jones doesn't have a ready retort this time. "Call it a curse," he says, after a moment, vaguely annoyed.

"What curse?"

"Nothing to do with you." It comes out more sharply than he intends it to, but Jones finds that he's irritable enough to mean it. "Like most everything here. I don't even know why you're still on my ship."

"Nothing to do with me?" Beckett repeats, his voice trembling slightly from the cold and rich with disbelief. "That's nonsense and you know it."

"Do I?" Davy Jones says, his voice rising enough that several of the crew shoot nervous glances in his direction.

"Yes," Beckett retorts, holding his own against the glare of Jones' ocean-colored eyes.

Jones both wants to hit him and doesn't want to hit him all at once. "Don't presume to tell me what my own thoughts are while you're standin' on my deck in the middle of my ship, _Mister Beckett_."

The lord affects a look of immeasurable boredom. "If I could tell you what your thoughts were somewhere you didn't own, Mister Jones, believe me- I would. But as I'm incapable of that, for the moment, you'll have to cope."

"Let me tell you, Beckett, I _have _to do nothin'." He takes a step forwards, forcing Beckett back, his barnacle-encrusted peg-leg making a satisfying _thud _as it hits the deck; he pulls himself up to his full height and glowers down at the smaller man. "You're on my ship and you'll take _my _orders. Go to your cabin."

The bored look only intensifies. "Mister Jones, do-"

"_Go to your cabin or I'll have you flogged,_" Jones snarls.

Beckett's mouth, still frozen in mid-retort, closes and he wheels around and walks, slowly and deliberately, to his cabin.

Jones glares at his back as he leaves, and is still glaring- now at the keys of his organ- when one of the crew brings him dinner three hours later.


	2. numb

_numb_

(for the unloveyou challenge at livejournal; theme 3#: this cancels out the hurt)

_Numb._

A minute ago, his mouth had been so cold that it burned, but the pain was fading as the shivers making their way down his spine refused to stop. His lips were white with chill; the desk pressed into his back, and he welcomed the thought of the bruises it would cause. He wouldn't want a reminder of this later, but the dull ache gave him something to think about besides what was happening.

His wig had been knocked askew and he could feel it slipping off, his pale blond hair slipping out a bit from underneath one edge of it. His hands were pressed against skin that was slick and soft but he was trying not to think of it as human. Thick tentacles slid across his cheeks, the suckers taking a gentle hold on him, pulling his mouth into the kiss.

_This cancels out his hurt. _

Beckett barely recalled the last time he'd felt hurt, but Jones, Jones with that damn music box- Jones had been wallowing in it for years. It was hard to reason with the captain's cold touch taking hold of his hips and Davy's salty breath in his mouth, but reason was all Beckett had left and he struggled to keep thinking even when Jones dragged him away from the desk and flattened him against a wall.

His wig rolled off on the floor somewhere and Beckett had closed his eyes. All he could think of then was _why do I do this_ and there was his answer already; the captain's freezing caresses sent sparks of heat racing through him and when, with a gasp, he once opened his eyes, Davy's blue, blue stare burned into his head.


	3. control

_control_

(for the unloveyou challenge at livejournal; theme 27#: author's choice)

If there is anything in the world that Cutler Beckett can admit to wanting, it is control.

He is not like William Turner or Jack Sparrow, who both seem to desire a complete lack of sensibility and order as much as they might desire a woman or a bottle of rum. He finds their preferences trivial and unimportant; they will not, he is quite sure, find what they are seeking at the bottom of a glass or in a ring on their lady's finger. Everything in the world is worthless if it is not owned, not classified and contained and made to be seen. Love and emotions cannot be held or stored; therefore, they are meaningless.

This is why Cutler Beckett is, in some small way, fond of Davy Jones. Davy Jones has made the immaterial into something real; Davy Jones has, for scorned love, carved his heart from his chest and put it somewhere that Beckett can get at. Davy Jones has manifested his emotions outside of himself, and now he may be controlled by that alone.

They are surrounded by guards when Beckett opens the chest, but Davy Jones is focused on him and him alone, those bright blue eyes staring at him in a hatred that seems bottomless. Because he has power, he has control- he is, when he delicately picks up the heart (and pointedly wrinkles his nose), holding all the seas in his hands. He clenches one hand softly around the organ not because he is a cruel man, not because he enjoys seeing the Dutchman's captain gasp and jerk as he does so, but because it will make his absolute dominance all the more clear for Jones and everyone else on the ship.

When Jones is brought to his cabin later, he has a strange look on his face; a mix of loathing and phantom pain that makes Beckett feel all the more fondly towards him. He stands a few feet from Beckett, stiff and tense, as the guards close the door; his blue eyes are glaring.

"I have men surrounding your heart and guards outside the door," Beckett tells him. "If you want to try and do something to me, you should first remind yourself that there are a dozen guns aimed at the chest at this moment." When the Dutchman's captain doesn't respond, he picks up the cup of tea resting on his desk and drinks from it slowly. "You are under my power until such a time as I decide otherwise. You will do as I say, or you will die."

Jones does as he says, his face twisted with disgust- for himself or for Beckett, the lord doesn't know.

Beckett never mocks him for it, and when he does demand something of Jones that isn't strictly related to business, he makes sure that they're quite alone. After all, he'd only be embarrassing himself along with the captain if they were discovered, and there seems little point in that when he is merely amusing himself anyway.

It is perhaps, he thinks, his greatest fault, that he loves the feel of control enough to put it to such purposes. Still, he thinks, and is content- still, no man in his position would be able to resist a little exercise of his power now and again. There cannot be said to be harm in something that both relaxes him and keeps the captain in his place.

Davy Jones must be as desirous of control as he is- the hatred in his eyes burns brighter every day.


End file.
